Dennis Wheatley - Traitors' Gate

'That is just what I thought; and we have an identity for you which should fill the bill. It is that of a Free French Officer who was an Interpreter with the Commandos and was killed in the St. Nazaire raid. Your story will be that you were fed up with serving under General de Gaulle, so during the confusion of the fighting you took the opportunity to desert; and that, as you had no time for Petain either, instead of remaining in France you went to Switzerland. Why, after a few months, you should have decided to go to Hungary, I leave to you.'

'It depends rather on this chap's circumstances, doesn't it?'

'To some extent; but I don't think they will help you very much. His name was Etienne Tavenier. He retired from the Army with the rank of Major a few years before the war. Presumably he did so because at about that time he inherited from his father a pleasant property in Perigord. That suggests that he was fairly well off, so could have afforded to travel, and might some time have been to Budapest on a holiday. But they will give you such particulars as we have of him downstairs. Your passport is ready for you there too, and various other papers. Among them is a draft on a Swiss bank in Berne for £500. They will give you the lot in cash or open a credit for you as Commandant Tavenier in Budapest, just as you wish.'

Gregory smiled. 'That seems quite a generous allowance, as I am going there only to try to find out the form; and that should not take me more than a couple of weeks.'

'The amount is in accordance with Sir Pellinore's request,' the General smiled back. 'This being a private enterprise, he is footing the bill. If your report proves hopeful, no doubt you will be going out again to stir up some trouble. If not, and you have left some of the money in a Budapest bank, we can arrange for our Swiss friends to reclaim it. And now, I'm due at a conference; so I'll wish you luck and pass you on to the section that has been arranging about your papers.'

The General's beautiful secretary took Gregory to a room on a lower floor, and said to a girl seated behind a desk there, 'Oh, Diana, here is your customer for Budapest.' Then with a ravishing smile she left them.

Diana was another lovely small, thin faced, with the sort of golden hair that cannot be got out of a bottle, and a slightly arched nose. She looked only about twenty-two, so Gregory expected her to show him through to someone more senior; but she casually waved him to a chair, offered him a Lucky Strike, then took one herself and, after surveying him for a moment from beneath her long lashes, said with a smile:

'It's a good thing you are only taking Tavenier's name and not attempting to pass as him. He was quite a lot older and going bald.'

'Did you know him, then?' Gregory enquired.

'No. But I got a description of him from C.C.O., H.Q., so that if you do run into trouble you could anyhow say that they are confusing you with a cousin of the same name, and be able to describe him correctly.'

'That was thoughtful of you.'

'Oh, it's just part of the Austin Reed Service.' Producing a folder from a drawer she tipped its contents out on to the desk and passed them to him one by one, methodically checking them off on a list as she did so.

In addition to the Vichy passport which contained an up-to-date photograph of himself that he had had taken at Sir Pellinore's suggestion before going up to Wales and the draft on the Swiss bank, there were a partly used Vichy ration card, two faked bills and several letters to support his false identity. When she had done, she said:

'As Tavenier lived over here from the time of his evacuation with other French troops from Dunkirk until the St. Nazaire raid last March, it would be quite in order for him to be wearing British underclothes; but you should remove any initials you may have on yours and, I suggest, buy yourself a French style suit and shoes when you get to Berne.'

Such advice to Gregory was very much 'teaching one's grandmother to suck eggs;' but he thanked her gravely, and she went on:

'Now this is off the record. I have one contact for you. But you must memorize his name and address; not write it down. It is Leon Levianski, wholesale furrier, 158 Kertesz Utcza, Pest.'

'Thanks.' He repeated what she had said three times, then asked, 'How does this chap come into our picture?'

'He doesn't. She lit another cigarette and looked down at her desk, her long lashes veiling her eyes. 'I happen to have an American boyfriend who is in O.S.S. Naturally we are terribly cagey with one another, but I told him the other night that we badly wanted a contact in Budapest and asked if he could help. He got me the name of this Jewish merchant. You see, it is still possible for the Hungarians to write to the U.S. via Scandinavia or Turkey, and ever since America came into the war this man has been writing a monthly letter to a cousin of his in New York. Instead of his letters just being waffles, they are factual reports of what goes on inside Hitler's Europe at least the old Austro-Hungarian part of it as far as this man can assess it on all he hears by way of the Jewish grapevine. After a while the cousin in New York thought they might interest the State Department; so now he sends them on regularly to Washington. Their writer might be able to help a bit. Anyhow, I think you would be quite safe in approaching him.'

Gregory repeated the name and address again, and nodded. 'I'm very grateful to you.' Then he read through the particulars of Etienne Tavenier. They were distinctly scanty. The Frenchman had entered the 14th Regiment of Tirailleurs in 1912, and served as a subaltern in the First World War. Afterwards he had spent several years in North Africa, then in 1926 married Mademoiselle Phoebe Constant (father's occupation unknown), and transferred to the 110th Infantry. It was believed that there were no children of the marriage, and that the wife's death (about the time of Munich) had been due to ptomaine poisoning. A year or so earlier Tavenier had come into his inheritance, a small chateau at Razac, not far from Perigueux. In 1939 he had been recalled to the colours, and in May, 1940, his battalion had been a part of General Blanchard's army, which had made a gallant stand beside the British. After being taken off from Dunkirk he had opted to remain in Britain as a member of the Free French Forces.

Having digested this, Gregory looked up and remarked, 'Not exactly a world-shaking career; but that is all to the good for my purpose. It is going to take quite a lot of thinking, though, to provide a plausible reason for a chap like that taking a holiday in Budapest in the middle of a war. If he was a sufferer from arthritis he might seek relief in a course of the famous mud baths; but it wouldn't be easy to bluff the doctors that I was afflicted in that way. Of course, the Hungarians are a romantic lot, so I might put it across discreetly that I had formed an attachment there before the war and had come back in the hope of being able to find the girl again.'

The goddess behind the desk shook her head. 'I don't like it. Middleclass Frenchmen are the most unromantic people in the world. But I have been thinking quite a lot about a story for you to tell. How about using foie gras?'

'Foie gras?' Gregory echoed in a puzzled voice.

'Yes; it's a national industry in Hungary. My mother and stepfather were there in 1938 and they brought back tins and tins of it.'

He nodded. 'You're quite right. One can't look out of the train anywhere in Hungary without seeing a flock of geese. But what is your idea?'

'Well, this foie gras was awfully good. The biggest tins had whole livers in them and they were that lovely shade of rich pink. There was only one thing lacking; there were no truffles to bring out the flavour.'